


Story of Our Lives

by 2StpsFrmHll



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Domestic Violence, Fucked Up, I'm Sorry, M/M, Original Character Death(s), Russian Mafia, Torture
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-22
Updated: 2018-02-20
Packaged: 2018-07-16 16:40:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,370
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7275811
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/2StpsFrmHll/pseuds/2StpsFrmHll
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The definition of a backstory is that it is a narrative providing a history or background, especially for a character or situation in a literary work, film, or dramatic series.<br/>Two separate individuals may not choose the same path, but they can have startlingly similar childhoods. John was broken when he was young, but he learnt to hide behind a mask. James was broken, but he rose from his ashes to become someone great. Do two broken souls make one whole soul?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. John's Beginning

**Author's Note:**

> TRIGGER WARNING:  
> Graphic depictions of abuse

When I was a child, my father told me on a regular basis that I was a mistake, an unwanted child. They had never wanted two children; they only wanted a girl. Mum regularly left the house and came back high, talking about events that had not happened and objects that were not there. Father would drink when she came home high.

When we were twelve, Harry was hungry. Since neither Mum or Father was home, she went to the kitchen and tried to get a can of beans from the cupboard. It was too high for her to reach, so she stood on the countertop. She grabbed the can of beans, but getting down from the countertop was harder for her. She kicked Father’s pack of beer off the counter where it shattered onto the floor. She ran upstairs to my room, and she cried, “Johnny, Johnny! I broke Daddy's bottles! What will I do?"

I patted her hair, wiped the tears from her eyes and brought her into my arms. “Harry, it will be okay. Dad can go out with his mates to the pub, or he has the option to not drink beer and pick another beverage,” I reasoned logically.

Harry continued to cry until she could not cry anymore. Then she hummed noncommittally and muttered an unconvinced, “perhaps.”

Later when Mum came home, she went into her bedroom yelling odd things that Harry and I did not understand. She said something about a purple elephant dancing on a ball while our father was making unique, unspeakable objects with balloons. When Father came home and heard Mum yelling about her hallucinations, he immediately went to the kitchen for his case of beer. His furious voice filled the house, drowning out Mum’s delusions. “HARRIET, JOHN, COME DOWN THIS INSTANT!” Harry and I exited our rooms and went to cower in the kitchen. Father shouted furiously, “What the bloody hell happened to my beer?”

Harry looked down at her feet and whimpered, “John knocked it over. Told me not to tell.”

I opened my mouth to say that Harry was lying, but Father had different plans for me, the sorry excuse of a child. “Nothing would happen? Johnny-boy , did you really think there wouldn’t be consequences?” I opened my mouth but all that escaped was a squeak as Father’s hand wrapped around my throat. “Harry, darling, go up to your mother and keep her company?” Through my oxygen-starved brain, Father made the threatening order sound like he was asking for tea. ”Johnny-boy and I just need to have a talk, man to man, okay?” Harry, gullible and utterly clueless as she was, nodded, and she scampered up the stairs to be with Mum.

“John Hamish Watson,” Richard Watson hissed, as he used one hand to undo the clasp of his belt. “Your mother, bless her heart, insisted that we give you the name of my Father, a great war hero. He was shot, injured, in a gunfight in some place in the middle of fucking nowhere, but he still went back to his fellow wounded soldiers, dragging them from the field to be treated. He was a hero.” Richard had slipped the belt from the loops of his trousers with one hand, and he held the belt loosely in his hand. He shoved me against the wall, so my back as to him. "But do you know what I think?” he slurred, drunkenly. “I think you will not amount to anything in your life. You’ll be an utterly useless bastard your whole life. And there is nothing you can do about it.” With every other word, Richard brought the belt down on my back. I heard the belt tearing through the thin material of my shirt. I felt the thud of the leather reverberate throughout my bones. I squirmed, and I tried to get away from the monster I called “Father.”

“Please! I didn’t do it!” I cried. Each lash felt like fire. Each lash landed with a slick slap that grated on my ears. Each lash my father landed on my back shredded a little piece of my naivety. “Stop it! Please!” I pleaded, but my protestations fell on deaf ears. I wanted it to all be over. I wanted to not be in pain. I wanted the lashes to end. Perhaps I wanted my tormentor, my own father, to cease to exist. Just disappear. Poof. My back felt like a nest of ants had my shredded back home, crawling around inside my skin, and rivulets of blood dripped down my back, staining the floor. I wanted to clear up the misunderstanding that I had not broken the bottles, but I didn’t want Harry to be in pain. My lovely, ‘perfect’ older sister. She will not be hurt.

“NOT ONLY DO I HAVE A DISHONEST THING IN THIS HOUSE, I HAVE A LIAR AS WELL!” my father roared, his belt still raining down on my back. I whimpered and cried. I wanted to scream that Harry did it, but even when I was twelve, I knew I wouldn’t be believed.

I am the liar, the dishonest thing no one wants. I am the fool that believes that he will be loved. After several minutes of screaming obscenities and lashing me, the onslaught finally ended. I lay limp on the floor, laying in a pool of my blood. Every small movement caused pain to shoot up my back like lightning. The lashes my father had given me caused blood to pool at the curve of my spine, and it dribbled down my sides.

“Stay there on the ground like the dirt you are, you miserable twat,” my father hissed. He turned around, heading to the kitchen. “And clean up the floor before you go to bed,” he shouted over his shoulder, as the back door banged shut. He probably left to go meet his mates for a pint.

I laid in the pool of my own blood for several minutes, trying to regain my breath and muster the energy to lift myself up and clean the floor. Slowly, I sat up, and I felt blood dripping down my back under my shirt. I gingerly raised my arms over my head, whimpering in pain as the skin covering my back strained and dripped fresh blood. I carefully pulled the remnants of my shirt over my head, gritting my teeth against the pain as the shirt pulled at torn flesh, and threw it in the bin. The shirt was soaked in blood and torn to shreds; I knew instinctively that it would not get clean, not like I would be able to wear the shirt even if it was clean from the blood. I found an old rag and used it to mop up the blood. The blood smeared across the floor, as the rag soon became soaked. I repeatedly made trips to the kitchen to squeeze the blood from the rag and rinse it with water. After the blood was mopped up to the best of my ability, I rinsed the rag in water and put soap on it, and I scrubbed the floor. Finally, I squeezed out the rag and tossed it into the bin, joining my red shirt.

I slowly ascended the stairs to my room. I hadn’t bothered skipping the stairs that were squeaky, so Harry knew I was coming up the stairs and peeked her head out her door. Her eyes widened as she took in the blood on my shoulders and on my sides.

“Johnny!” she cried, as pearl-like tears poured down her cheeks.

I shook my head. “No, Harry,” I ground out. “I need to be alone.” Her face fell and her eyes threatened to overflow.

I sighed, “I didn’t mean it like that, Harry. I just want to go to sleep.” I hugged her, comforting her with small noises and whispering, “it’s going to be okay, Harry. It’s going to be okay.” She just cried into my chest, her arms clutching mine to my sides, and she carefully avoided my back. After several minutes of our embrace, I gently pushed her off. “I need to clean up, Harry. Where are the bandages?”

“In the kitchen,” she snuffled, and I sighed. I would have to venture downstairs again. I nodded and turned around to go back downstairs. “John,” Harry squeaked, as I displayed my shredded back to her.

“Yes, Harry?” I asked tiredly.

“Nothing,” she sobbed, eyes bleary. I nodded, as I made my way downstairs to grab the first aid kit.

On my way back upstairs, neither Harry or Mum exited their rooms. I heard sniffling behind Harry’s door, but Mum and Father’s room was quiet. I went into my room to grab my night clothes and then went into the bathroom across the hall.

I entered the bathroom and filled the bath with warm water. I hissed as I lowered myself into the water, the warmth aggravated, yet the water soothed my wounds. The water quickly became pink and murky. I sighed and got out, as I cautiously selected an old towel that I hoped nobody would mind getting thrown away.

I dabbed my back, and carefully spread ointment on my back, careful to not exacerbate my wounds. I slowly bound my back in gauze, and I read the instructions on the bottle before downing several pain pills with water from the tap. I knew I would not be able to fall asleep soon. When I exited the bath, I carried the first aid kit with me to my room and brought out my assignments. I tried to get into a comfortable position that would not strain my back too much before the medicine worked.

Some period of time between settling on my bed and when my alarm clock went off, I managed to fall asleep. When I woke up, I was on my stomach, and I reached out my hand to slap blindly at the alarm. I slowly sat up, my back stiff and aching. I twisted my neck around and saw some specks of blood on the white bandages. Sighing, I left the safety and warmth of my bed to grab pants, trousers, a jumper and the first aid kit before opening my bedroom door, and I lumbered stiffly into the bathroom. I slowly undid the bandages around my chest and turned in the mirror to see my back. It looked like macabre red ribbons. Later, I would need to go to the library and do some research on how to treat wounds of this nature. I spread ointment on the parts I could reach and rebound my back, slipping on my clothes and brushing my teeth. I went downstairs to where Harry was sitting at the table and Mum was cooking eggs. She smiled at me and I smiled back. “Good morning, Mum,” I said.

“Morning, Johnny-boy,” she replied and I winced at the nickname my family called me by. “I’m making eggs.” She handed me a chipped plate with cheesy eggs and buttered toast.

“Thank you,” I replied politely, something lurked in the back of my mind telling me to keep her happy.

“No problem, Johnny-boy,” she smiled as I grimaced again, but she remained unaware of my discomfort. I quickly shoveled eggs into my mouth and grabbed my bag. “Come on, Harry! We’re going to be late,” I hollered up the stairs. While I ate, she had gone to use the bathroom.

“Coming!” she yelled down. I waited for her by the door, and we tugged on our shoes, jerking coats onto our bodies. I had carefully pulled on my jacket, as I attempted to not aggravate my wounds. Once we were prepared to face the crisp morning air, we trudged outside, and Harry slammed to door with a loud bang.

“Did you tell her?” I asked, pensively. If Harry had told Mum, then I would have to face the consequences of Mum confronting Father, or not. Regardless, she would bombard me with questions. Then she would either coddle me endlessly or lecture me in her screeching voice, berating me for not sticking up for myself. If Harry hadn’t told, then Mum could be kept in the dark, not knowing of Father’s violent behavior toward me.

Harry shook her head. “But you should tell her, Johnny,” she whispered. Her head was tucked between her shoulders, and she kicked a loose piece of gravel down the street.

“Tell her what?” I asked, pleased with the fact that she had enough mercy to not address me with ‘boy.’ “That Father hit me? What will happen then? What could she possibly do that she has not already done? That she will not do?” I spat at her. I then sighed, resignedly. “There is a high probability that he shall repeat last night.”

Harry burst out, “He shouldn’t hit you!” I didn’t mention that it was her fault that I ended up like this. She seemed to realize it too because she shut her mouth with an audible click.

“I’ll live,” I reply. “It’s nothing big. Don’t tell anyone, not even Clara,” I warned. Harry told everything to her best mate, but even she understood the gravity of the situation. She nodded vigorously. We arrived at school and we go off in separate directions to our own group of friends. I met with Philip Anderson, Mike Stamford, James Bond and Sebastian Moran. Everyone was the same age except for James and Sebastian, who were two years older.

“Hey, John!” Mike yelled and waved.

“Hey, Mike! Has anything interesting happened?” I asked.

“Not really,” replied Moran.

“Besides Eve getting her arse kicked by James,” Philp piped up. I sighed.

“What happened?” I asked, resignedly. James had a volatile temper, but it was not as violent as Father, nor did he get upset for petty reasons. James would only beat someone up if he or she had insulted someone or something he cared about, like his friends or football.

“She called my mates ignorant sods,” he replied hotly. “She said that I should hang out with them. Meaning arrogant, rich berks who should’ve stayed in public school,” snarled James.

I sighed. “No need to beat her up,” I scolded. “She’s just speaking her mind.”

“Her opinion is not necessary,” he shot back. “I will do what I want, with or without the input of others.” Everyone burst out in laughter.

“Understatement of the year, that,” commented Philip. Mike started to laugh again while Moran shook his head. I shrugged, but then winced because it aggravated my back.

Moran shot me a look. “Are you okay, mate?” he asked.

I nodded. “Just tense, Moran,” I replied, shrugging off his concerns. “Must’ve slept the wrong way.”

“If you say so,” he responded, unconvinced.

“I’m sure,” I answered. “Look, during lunch, I need to go to the library and do some research. I won’t be joining you.”

“Okay,” Mike said. Philip looked at me, and Moran raised an eyebrow.

“It’s just lunch!” I exclaimed, insinuating that I was eating with someone I fancied.

“It’s never ‘just’ lunch,” muttered James. I sighed in exasperation, as Mike sniggered.

“I promise,” I said. “Just lunch.” Everyone grudgingly agreed. The bell rang and we all headed off to our separate classes. Philip and I walked to Chemistry together while the others headed in the opposite direction to their own classes.

Philip asked, “Have you listened to the new David Bowie song?”

I shook my head. “No,” I replied. “But I’ve heard that it’s fantastic.”

He hums in agreement, “I really like it. Hey, if you want to come over after school tomorrow, I’ve got the record.”

“I’d love to,” I smiled. Despite being a little too arrogant, Philip was a generally nice bloke. I liked him.

“Tomorrow?” he asked.

“Sure,” I nodded. “I’ll need to tell my parents tonight. I don’t think I have anything going on tomorrow afternoon.” Philip nodded as we enter the classroom.

After chemistry, Philip and I head off in separate directions, and I head to my Pre-Calculus with James. I wasn’t with any of my mates for any other courses because I had been two years ahead of anyone my age. Then I went to my history class. Once the bell had rung, I left with the rest of my classmates and headed towards the library.

Once in the library, I went to the shelf with all the medical books. I chose a book that was about how to treat trauma patients and open wounds. I took the book and sat down at a table and read for the rest of the period. I was engrossed in the way the body worked and how to treat a patient going into shock. I checked the book out and put it in my bag to read later that night.

There were a couple more periods after lunch, and they all passed uneventfully. After school, I met up with Harry, and we walked home together, kicking gravel down the road. We did not talk to each other, but words were not needed.

We walked through the front door, and our father was already in the living room; a case of beer sat next to his chair with a couple empty bottles next to it. “Afternoon, Father,” I greeted. He grunted.

“Hey, Dad!” Harry said cheerfully.

He looked at her. “Harriet,” he slurred. “How was school?”

“Good,” she nodded. “Today we learned about World War II in history.”

“Really?” asked my father.

“Yes,” Harry nodded enthusiastically. “It’s really interesting. Well, I’m going to go finish my assignments, and then later, may I go meet with Clara?”

“Sure,” my father slurred. “Just be home before your mother gets here.” She nodded and ran up to get her assignments completed so she could have a fun evening with Clara. “What do you want?” Father asked gruffly, taking a swig of his beer.

“Tomorrow after school, may I go to Philip’s house to listen to the new record by David Bowie?” I asked.

“Philip?” my father slurred, downing the rest of the beer and opening another.

“Yes, sir, Philip. He’s one of my mates,” I replied. “He has the new David Bowie album and I would like to go over there tomorrow after school and listen. I’ll finish assignments during lunch.”

“To his house? After school? When his parents aren’t at home?” father asked.

“Yes, sir,” I replied.

“No,” he said with finality, finishing half of the new bottle.

“Sir-”

“No means no!” he yelled, slamming the bottle against the arm of the chair. “I WON’T BE SHAMED BY BEING KNOWN AS THE MATE WHO HAS TWO CHILDREN WHO ARE POOFTERS!” he yelled.

“Harry-”

“DON’T MENTION HARRIET!” Richard yelled.

“She’s-”

“I SAID DON’T MENTION HARRIET WATSON, YOU WANKER!” Richard finished his beer and approached me.

“Sir-” I tried, and that’s as far as I got before he swung the beer bottle at my face. I ducked, so the beer bottle only clipped the side of my head. The edges of my vision were tinged with black, and I clutched my head in agony.

I had been so focused on the bottle that I hadn’t noticed his other arm until it punched me in my diaphragm, pushing the air out of my lungs, so I slumped against the wall. I braced myself against the wall, using my arms to keep the weight off my back. He dropped the bottle on the floor, and it shattered so the top was intact, but the bottom of the bottle had sharp edges. As I tried to breathe deeply, my father had already removed his belt. I tried to raise my arm to protect my face, my shoulder blades resting against the wall, but my efforts were in vain because he reached down and flipped me onto my stomach.

“YOU USELESS SWOT!” Richard shouted as he brought the belt down repeatedly on my back that had been damaged the night before. “I REFUSE TO HAVE A POOFTER RELATED TO MY BLOOD!” I cried out in pain, for the belt had reopened the wounds of last night and had begun to bleed anew.

“Daddy?” Harry cried through our father’s yelling, “What’s going on?”

“Nothing,” Richard said, and he lowered his voice from his shout as to not sound as pissed as he actually was. “Why don’t you go to Clara’s house now? Bring your homework over there, and you can help each other study. Remember to be home before your mother gets home, around six,” he warned. It had been early evening, so she had a couple extra hours with Clara, meaning I had a couple hours alone with this bastard of a father. “And go out the back door,” he added. “Johnny-boy and I need to talk,” he hissed.

“Okay,” she said, her voice shook. If it was with fear or from excitement, I still do not know, as I was not paying complete attention to their exchange. As she closed her door to gather her things, my father started to punch me. He punched my face and chest, and when I curled up to protect myself, he started to kick me wherever I was unprotected. Harry came downstairs, and she called back, “I’ll be back around six!” as she exited the side door.

My father called a brief “Okay!” but still kept up his onslaught of kicking and punching me. After he heard the side door click shut, Father started his tirade anew. “YOU UNGRATEFUL CUNT!” he shouted, as he assaulted my sides with kicks. I attempted to roll away from the assault, but I had managed to wedge myself into a corner. “YOU MADE MY PERFECT LITTLE GIRL A POOF, A DEMON! I’D BE FINE IF IT WERE JUST YOU, BUT NO! YOU HAD TO TURN HER TOO!”

“Ah, there it is,” I thought. “He thinks I made her like Clara, that I turned her into some demon that fancies girls. They blame me.” My assumption to this day is that I could not stand the thought that they blamed me for what we were, whom we fancied, because soon I was a limp doll that my father shouted abuse at and assaulted.

I had been dimly aware of Richard picking me up slurring, “Well, once I correct you, she’ll come around without your bad influence.” He dragged me by my arm over to the door to the basement.

He opened it, and I remember thinking, “No. God, NO!” He pushed me down the stairs. I tripped and tumbled down the stairs, dragging a box of mason jars with me as I frantically grasped for purchase. I landed on top of the crushed mason jars, the broken glass cutting through my jumper, through the bandages and into my already bleeding back. My arms had cushioned my head, but they bore the brunt of the fall, and I felt a bone snap under the pressure. As pain laced up my arm, I cried out in agony, but the sound sent a sharp ache flying across my skull.

I had been barely conscious enough to hear Richard slur, “Reflect on your actions. I’ll come back when you’ve corrected your ways.” With that, he shut the door and left me down there for days, and he never opened the door to throw down provisions; he just left me alone with my thoughts in the dark. I do not remember counting the amount of time as it passed. All I remember is that he threw me down on a Thursday afternoon, and when he dragged me up the stairs and threw me on my bed, it was Monday morning.


	2. James' Beginning

When I was a child, my father always took me to the park to play. While I was playing, he would talk to all the other parents there. Little did I know, he was actually 'prospecting', as he would call it. I had known that Dad was doing bad things but, how come I had never noticed or stopped him? As the years drew on and as my father took me to different places, he would leave me and still talk to other people. Once, I discovered him with a young woman when I was twelve. She was very pretty and not much younger than my dad. He made up a story to tell her that as he was carrying me on his shoulders, he had twisted something and needed an aspirin. She had him follow her and as they went over the horizon, I never saw her again. Later, when Dad found me, he was wearing different clothes. It was no bother, Dad always changed clothes after seeing somebody. 

I wish I had known then, maybe if I had known, then this would have never happened. I was standing before the sink, holding a knife under the water. Blood rinses off and down the drain. Whose blood is it? It's not mine, and Dad is perfectly fine next to me, who is bleeding? Shaking, I looked down towards the floor and let out a yelp of terror. Laying face down on the floor, was my mother, blood pooling around where her chest is. Dad chuckles, "So, fuckface, you finally realized what you were doing, eh?" Dropping the knife, I ran to my room tearing up and locked the door. I heard footsteps coming down the hall, along with the crazed chuckling from my father. 

Sliding down the door, I buried my face in my hands.’ How could I have done this?’ I got up and strode over to my bedside table. Grabbing my cellphone, I sent a text to the local police force, they would be here soon. Next to my phone, there was a gun. I picked it up and held it to my head. Thinking back to when he used to hold me on his shoulders, I thought of normal. As the memory faded, I pulled the trigger, aiming at the door. I heard a short scream followed by a muffled thud against the door. Blood seeped underneath the doorway and onto my once white carpet. 

Gasping for air, I realized I had held my breath. Minutes passed as I waited for the sheriff to show up. Cleaning my handprints off the gun, I put the gun in my father's hands and closed the door once again. I hid in a corner of the room and continued to wait. Soon enough, I heard pounding upon the window above my head. Getting up, I turned to them, an officer was crouching and motioning for me to open the window. As I lifted the latch and unfastened the window, he began to ask me questions. "We received your message, did he really come after you and your mother?" I feigned fear and nodded. 

Cops will always believe genuine fear if you act the part. The cop took me out of my bedroom and escorted me to the front yard. There, a paramedic put a shock blanket on top of me. I grabbed it and placed it above my head and over my eyes, still pretending to be scared. The cop then ventured into the house through my room. After a minute, all the walkie-talkies went off, the cop blaring out instructions for the deputies. Only one stayed behind with me, she was very kind and she asked many questions. "Jim, how old are you?" she asked. I replied, " I turn eighteen next week, ma'am." Cops loved to be called sir or ma'am, it like they wanted to be respected, however, Dad always said to respect cops, but I don't have to like them. “Ma’am, may I ask what your name is?” I politely inquired. She turned to look towards me, “Donovan. Alice Donovan, federal agent.” I looked up, “Um, Ms. Donovan, since I’m almost eighteen, can I stay in my house? I don’t have any relatives and I don’t want to go to an orphanage. Please? Ma-maybe you can, like, check up on me every now and then until my birthday, or something. It’s just, I don’t want to leave this place, too many good memories with my father and mum.” She seemed to think about my idea for a while. Later, she told me I could, but I would have to stay outside of the house for a week so the cleaning crew could clear everything up. They would even replace our carpets and my door. But, I had to go to a psychologist and stay with them so they could monitor my actions. 

It has been three weeks since I moved in temporarily with my new psychologist, Dr. Bergerson. He is really nice, though I believe that he is kind only to see my true emotions. Besides, I only have to stay here for a few more days until I can go home. All I have to do now is to keep playing my game of charades. I wonder if I can go back home. Part of me wants to stay and be nurtured by nice people, but the other believes it all to be a masquerade. Sometimes, I feel like he is watching me through the cameras all around the house. It’s creepy, but not unbearable. 

Also, Agent Donovan has been stopping by every few days to make sure that I’m well. However, I ended up selling my house for money to go to college. On the topic of college, school is another story. All of my friends abandoned me or stopped talking to me. They think that I’ve gone crazy or that I’m severely depressed, maybe even driven mad. What they don’t know, though, is that I have played directly into their hands. Everyone’s hands. The other day I was being pushed around, a couple bullies and their lead man, Carl, saying that I had killed my parents, to stick to my ‘part’, I collapsed to the floor, ‘sobbing’.

“You don’t understand! Any of you! It wasn’t my fault, I swear. Please. Please leave me alone.” I spent a good fifteen minutes just fake-crying and shaking. I’m pretty sure that they’ll never bother me again after that scene. The play only just keeps getting better and better by the second. ‘I swear I’ll kill Carl, someday’, I thought to myself.

Later, I went back to the doctor’s house, it was only a short walk from school. When I got home, I realised that school wasn’t even over yet and the guards just let me walk out sobbing. The doctor heard the door and came out of his office to see what was going on. He saw me standing there, my head hanging down. Once he regained some composure, he rushed over and immediately started asking questions. Why was I home? What happened? Were you crying? I guess he really does care for my well-being. I kept up the facade, feeling like it would get more fun at any second. He took me to his office, a small room with a recliner and a desk. Doc sat me in the recliner and had me lie down while he took his place at the desk. Booting up the computer, he asked me how my day was and what caused the event. 

I breathed in, “Some kids were saying some mean things and I guess - I guess I just….. had a meltdown. It was horrible. People were staring, no one was ... doing anything.”

The doctor just sat and looked almost confused, “Well, James, you haven’t had an outburst like that before, so I presume that the, um, bullying, I guess, is what triggered this reaction out of you. I suggest that you take school off tomorrow, stay here or go out and take a walk. Just do something that will help you relax and try not to think about what happened a few weeks ago. Alright? I’ll call the school and let them know.”

Silence engulfed the room, as I turned to leave, I gave him a small smile. A gentle smile settled on his sharp features. 

Exiting the room, I quietly closed his door and headed up to my room. Once inside, I rushed over to my desk where a small sketchpad was waiting for me. The page facing me had a drawing of a boy, I don’t know who but, he looked vaguely familiar, as if from a dream. I had drawn the profile and frontal views of him from the shoulders and up. To admit, he was quite handsome and, well, my sexuality is that of a cooked noodle. 

Carefully tearing the paper out of the sketchbook, I grabbed a pin and tacked the picture to my cork board on the wall. Stepping back, I took a glance at the profiles, then removed them. I was not finished yet, I still need to add color.. “Bollocks, I need to get water and a paintbrush. And my watercolors,” I cursed.

I went to the door and peered out and into the hallway. No one in sight, good. Tiptoeing out of my room, I lurked to the kitchen and got a glass of water. I went back to my room, set the glass down, then trekked to the doc’s office. Pausing for a moment, I collected myself, and lightly knocked on the door. A muffled, “Come in” rang out through the house.

I opened the door and stuck my head in, “Umm, can I have my art supplies, please?” I murmured.

The doctor looked up, “Could you say that again? I couldn’t quite hear you.”

Standing up straighter, I raised my voice a bit. “May I have my art supplies, please?” I asked politely.

He opened a drawer and retrieved my case of brushes, pencils, and pens. “Of course, James. You can keep them from now on, as well,” he said. The doc tossed them to me, then sat back down in his chair.

“Uh, Doc, I’ll, um, be upstairs until dinner. Could you get me when it’s ready?” I requested. Nodding, he turned his chair back to his desk, leaving the question to sit in the air. I retreated from the room, closing the door in front of me. Rushing upstairs to my room, I felt very uplifted. The doctor had finally given me my art supplies back, my happiness couldn’t be any greater. As soon as I sat down, a watercolor was in my grip. I reached for a brush and dipped it into the cup of water. Brushing the watercolor against the brush, colors exploded onto the brush. Setting the watercolor on a paper towel, I brought the brush onto the boy’s eyes. They were a steel blue with small flecks of green. After finishing the eyes, I starting colouring his hair, a smooth honey brown color containing hints of blond. Moving on to the skin, I chose two skin tones, a light pink and a much lighter tan. I spread the pink across his cheekbones and covered the rest of his face and neck in tan. Then to shadow, I chose a darker shade of brown, but not too dark. Leaving the page to dry, I picked up a mechanical pencil and began a new sketch. This time, it was a wolf howling up to a full moon. Soon enough, the initial sketch was finished just as the clock struck seven. Not much time passed until a firm yet gentle knock pulled me out of my focus.

The doctor stuck his head into the room and cleared his throat, “Ahem. James, dinner is ready, meet me in the dining room when you are ready. Alright?”

I turned around to face him, “Thanks. I’ll be right down.” Getting up from the chair, I sighed to myself. Another dinner where he asks me more stupid questions about how I am feeling.

I walked into the dining room and the doctor was setting two plates down onto the table. “James,” he started. “Could you go get two glasses of drinks and the salt and pepper shakers, please?” Nodding, I sauntered into the kitchen. I brought in the salt and pepper, then went back to the kitchen to fetch cups. Reaching into the cupboard, I picked out two of my favorite cups. One had a picture of cats on it while the other was from the London Eye, a trip I had gone on with Dad during the summer a few years back. I filled the cups with ice and cold lemonade and returned to the dining room. Placing down the Doc’s cup in front of him, I rounded the table to my seat across from him.

As soon as I sat down, we began to eat. Few minutes of silence filled the room before the first question was asked. “So, James, I would like you to tell me about why you came home so early from school today.”

I flinched at his volume, “W-well, some kids were bothering me and I guess I had a small breakdown.”

He nodded thoughtfully, “Okay, and what precisely did you do during this mental breakdown?”

The doc looked at me, then picked up some food on his fork. “I, um, I started to cry and kind of screamed a little.” Man, I really should add in more stuttering, maybe then it would sound like I regret today’s fake. The doctor chewed, processing my words carefully. Soon after, I began to eat as well. However, as soon as the first bite was in my mouth, I had the urge to vomit. I stood up, knocking my chair back. Running to the bathroom, I covered my mouth so I wouldn’t puke over the floor. The doctor followed me, worried, he asked, “James? James are you alright? Should I call for a medic?” 

Retching, I gave him a shaky, “Yessir. I’m alright. I’ll be fine if I just get some rest. Today’s been a long day, sir.” I received silence, I could hear the grandfather clock ticking away the seconds. 

Finally, a sigh, “James, if something is bothering you, it is okay to tell me. I am a psychologist after all. You should never feel as if you have something to hide.” Looking to him, I nodded, then turned and made my way to my bedroom. Damn, he was annoying. I couldn’t last another day in this hellhole.

‘Tonight’, I thought. ‘Tonight will be the night I get the hell out of this place.’ I collapsed on my bed to get as much as rest as possible. 

When I woke up, it was half past two in the morning. I grabbed a duffle and stuffed my wallet, art supplies, my cell phone, and a large amount of clothing into it. At least I had my debit cards and savings from my father. Then, I wrote a note that said, 

“Dear Doctor, I’m sorry, but I can’t take much longer living here. I need to go away and never come back. It was nice living with you, but I just couldn’t stay, 

James Alexander Moriarty

PS: I took out the tracker chip. I don’t wish to be found. Since I am 18 and have already graduated, I will begin to piece together my life again. Please do not try to find me. Have a wonderful rest of your life.”

Leaving the note on the desk, I looked back into the room, a messy bed, empty closet, and bare dresser stared back at me. Opening the window, I was greeted by cold, Cornwall air. I went back to my closet and grabbed by thick winter coat and multiple pairs of socks and gloves. Putting the coat over my clothes, I settled with stashing my gloves away into my pockets. I headed over to the window again and looked down. Two stories below was a large bush, if I landed correctly, I would be spared of injury. 

‘Alright, Jim. You’ve got this’ I thought to myself. I hefted my bag outside of the window and waited until the coast was clear to jump. ‘On three’, I spoke again to myself. ‘Three. Two. ONE!’ On one, I leapt out of the window and landed safely onto the brush. Hopefully, I hadn’t made much noise in the process of landing. Throwing myself off of the hedge, I stooped down to get my bag. 

Upon standing up, I took in two large breaths, and ran. I ran past the school, past the supermarket and out to Carl’s house. I managed to knick a poison from the school’s chemistry lab before I left. I decided I would pour the poison into his pool, perhaps he would die swimming, or shortly thereafter. Once he was dead, I would be forgotten in this small town. Nobody would remember James Moriarty. We’ll see about that. As soon as I turned to leave, a light flickered on inside the house. Hunkering down, a tall shadow walked along the windows. After a minute or two, I ran away from the house. I ran towards the railroad tracks, distancing myself from that wretched town.

Slowing down to a walk, I let my thoughts drift to what I would do once I arrived at London. By then, police searches would be conducted and I would have to dye my hair. ‘What color should I dye it,” I thought to myself. “Maybe I could dye it black. Make it harder to detect who I am.’ I would have to change my sense of style, find a place to stay, and possibly find an easy job.

Arriving to the train station, I bought my train ticket with cash, I didn’t want to be detected so early in my game. After all, I was having fun in my great game, now wasn’t I?


	3. Shot to Your Ego

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John has joined the army. He finds a friend, and he gains a new nickname.

I finally left that house and enlisted in Her Majesty’s Army at 16. Mum, who was still high from a fix, signed the papers. I received my NVQ and City & Guilds Certification diploma and completed Phase 1 training, despite my previous injuries I had sustained throughout childhood. I had been concerned that the abuse I had sustained during my childhood would affect my performance.

For months after the incident in the basement, my back had been sore, and I still had faint scars from the whipping and the Mason jars. When I had gone to the hospital for my broken arm, the doctors said they had to re-break it for them to properly set it. Consequently, I allowed them to re-break my arm and wrap it in a cast. The visit also involved an awkward conversation with the doctors as to why it had taken me so long to get medical attention. However, my fears concerning my physical abilities were unfounded. After Phase 1, I went through a 23 week-long practice where I combined theoretical practice and field work.

After training, I was sent to a hospital on a base far from the front lines. I was stationed at Camp Shorabak, formerly Camp Bastion, in an Afghan Ministry of Defense air base located northwest of the city of Lashkar Gah in Helmand Province, Afghanistan. The base was roughly 127 kilometers away from Kandahar, the main area of confrontation. The work was sporadic and usually uneventful. Ninety-nine per cent of the time was spent twiddling my thumbs. Occasionally I went off-base to villages to administer vaccines and delivered first-aid kits. Other times I performed surgeries on soldiers who had already received emergency treatment in the field, but it was all mundane. The tedium began to settle into my veins, and I became restless. After some deliberation, I requested a transfer to Kandahar. The next day my commanding officer, James Sholto, summoned me to his office.

He stationed himself behind his giant desk. He stood tall and imposing. I stood stoically, hands behind my back and feet should-width apart. I stared at a point beyond his shoulder. “Lieutenant Watson,” he began. “You’re a good man. Being closer to the fighting does not eliminate the mundane work. In fact, it increases it because you have more paperwork to fill out as a result of more events that happen. It does not vastly increase the chances of getting a medal. You can obtain a medal from being a good soldier out here. The only thing the transfer will do to you will increase the chances of getting killed,” he lectured. “Now, tell me why you filed for a transfer.”

“Sir,” I replied. “I am well aware of the chances of death. Even out here, away from the front lines, I could die. Being away from Kandahar does not eliminate the chances of my death. The distance merely decreases the chances of death.”

“Then why are you doing crazy shite like transferring to the front lines?” Sholto asked, albeit a little aggressively.

“Sir, we do not receive many patients from the front lines. We receive those who survived. I heard from a soldier whom I treated the other day. There were three other fatally injured men in his convoy. However, we only received one from the field hospital. The lives of three soldiers were lost, and the fourth will not be returning to duty. I know I will not be able to treat every single soldier that is wounded in this war. I know that I will not be able to save every soldier that I am able to treat. I know this, sir. I know that not all soldiers can be saved, but if I am able to save the just one more, one more soldier will be able to return to their family. One less family will be grieving. Britain will be grieving for one less soldier lost in this war. I acknowledge that I will not be able to save all of the injured men. However, I will be able to save as many as I can to the best of my ability.”

My commanding officer looked into my eyes. I glared defiantly back at him. He dismissed me with a wave of his hand. The next day, he filed my transfer request.

After being transferred to the front lines, I was assigned to the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers. I quickly learned that there was one main rivalry in the regiment. It was between two snipers; one was the accomplished sniper named Sebastian; I did not know his surname. I quickly heard that Sebastian had problems with listening to his commanding officers, but he completed the job given to him with incredible efficiency and fatal aim. The other sniper was an unpleasant man called Alexander Llewelyn Ulyseus. Ulyseus was fond of bragging about his skills. He claimed that he was the best sniper in the regiment, and he often put his foot in his mouth. He was one of the guys that had very few friends and incredibly dubious morals.

On one occasion, there was a lull in the action, and everyone had been getting antsy. Sebastian had just returned from a job a couple days ago, but Ulyseus hadn’t been assigned a job in several weeks. As a result, Ulyseus was jealous, and he had a severe case of cabin fever. I had just gotten off a fourteen hour shift, and I just wanted to go sleep for a couple hours. However, I made the unfortunate mistake of passing by Sebastian and Ulyseus and his cronies.

When Ulyseus saw that Sebastian was close, he loudly told his friends, “Yeah, and the higher ups are assigning me to this job ‘cuz I’m a better sniper than Bassy here. They told me that they’d pick him, but he’s a smelly turd waffle!” Sebastian kept walking, completely ignoring Ulyseus and his big mouth. Apparently, Ulyseus couldn’t stand that he was being ignored, so he continued, “and they said that he doesn’t have any friends ‘cuz even a dog’s more loyal than he is!”

Something in Sebastian snapped, whether it was the comment about him not having any friends or the fact that Ulyseus questioned his loyalty, he rounded on the ignorant berks. “Ulyseus, is your arse jealous of the shit that spews out of your mouth? If you think you’re so hot, do you want to try your talent against me?” he hissed, puffing out his chest and towering over Ulyseus and his accomplices.

Ulyseus and his posse were cowed under Sebastian’s gaze. However, Ulyseus wouldn’t let his pride be wounded any further, and he stepped into Sebastian’s personal space. “Talent?” Ulyseus spat, as he tried to puff out his chest. “You want to test your ‘talent’ against mine? I’ve got more talent than you have! You’re no better than a dog! Hell, you’re not even as loyal as one. I don’t see you socializing with any soldiers? Hm? Maybe you’re not even one of us! I’d put my money in the fact that you’re-”

Sebastian cut off Ulyseus from his rant. “The challenge is not questioning your social skills, Ulyseus,” he hissed. “I challenge you contest of skill. A contest of sniper skill. A shooting contest. After all, we are both snipers. We pick out those who need to be picked out through our scope.”

Ulyseus seemed to deflate at the challenge. I knew that he wasn’t as accomplished as Sebastian, and Ulyseus also knew that he would lose to Sebastian if it was a competition based on sniping. “When would the challenge be?” he asked hesitantly.

“What about right now?” replied Sebastian. “Unless you’ve no balls and can’t do it today?”

“Actually, I can’t,” shot back Ulyseus, using the out he thought Sebastian provided him. “I’m supposed to meet Boss man in an hour.”

“An hour is all we need,” hissed Sebastian darkly, ignoring Ulyseus’ blatant disregard of titles and respect.

“Um, actually, I’m, uh, not feeling up to par today,” stuttered Ulyseus, as he backed up, hands in front of him.

“And why is that?” growled Sebastian, taking a menacing step forward, as if he wasn’t already in Ulyseus’ personal space.

“”Today I have allergies; they’re really bad, so my eyes aren’t the best.”

“What are you allergic to?” snarled Sebastian.

“Dust!” squeaked Ulyseus stupidly.

“Well, then every day is going to suck. We’re in a fucking desert, Ulyseus. It’s not going to get any better. Suck it up,” snapped Sebastian.

His eyes then landed on me, the doctor. “I have low blood sugar; Dr. Watson can attest to that!”

I internally sighed. I knew that any confrontation between Ulyseus and Sebastian would be time consuming and a giant contest of “my gun is larger than yours.” Looking him straight in the eye, in a calm tone, I stated, “I am unable to share patient information, Ulyseus.”

“Come on, you can at least back up my statement!” whined Ulyseus.

“I am unable to share patient information,” I restated. Ulyseus opened his mouth, no doubt to whine and plead his case. “However,” I interrupted, “I do not condone liars, Ulyseus.”

“What?” he stuttered. “I’m sure I have low blood sugar! Look! My hands are shaking!” Ulyseus held up his hands, and they were, indeed, shaking.

However, Sebastian merely snarled, “Maybe your hand is shaking because your chicken shite! You’re all bark, but no bite!”

Not allowing any further damage to his pride, Ulyseus spat, “Fine! I’ll accept your stupid challenge! What are we going to do?”

“We each get ten shots from 200 meters away. Whoever shoots the bullseye most accurately in those ten shots wins bragging rights. Meaning,” and he looked meaningfully at Ulyseus, “that the loser cannot say that they are a better sniper than the winner.”

“Bragging rights?” Ulyseus inquired. “That’s all?” He sounded incredulous.

“You want to put more on stake?” questioned Sebastian, as he raised an eyebrow. “We can always put something with more substance at stake.”

“No!” Ulyseus squeaked. “No! I don’t!”

“Do you have a problem with an umpire keeping track of all this?” commented Sebastian. It sounded more like a demand.

“Umpire? Where’re we going to get an umpire? This isn’t a game of cricket, Bassy.”

“True, this is not a game of cricket. However, this is a wager. A neutral party is necessary to confirm the victor of this wager,” Sebastian coldly stated.

“Fine,” snarled Ulyseus. “Then I get to choose the umpire.”

“It must be someone impartial to both parties,” reminded Sebastian.

“Doctor Watson!” he exclaimed.

I internally groaned. I had no time for Ulyseus’ incompetence, monumental stupidity and overall arrogance. I raised an eyebrow in question. “Yes?”

“You’ll be the umpire!” he announced.

I stared at him blankly. Then I raised an eyebrow in question, as if to say, “excuse me?” When he did not take the hint, I said it aloud. “Excuse me?”

“You’ll be the umpire,” he repeated slowly, as if he were talking to an idiot. He was not talking to a buffoon. I was the one talking to the utter imbecile that could not differentiate his cock from his monstrous ego that needed to be put into a paper shredder.

“Don’t be so quick to assume that I will do anything and everything you say, Ulyseus,” I spat. He looked confused. I sighed, audibly this time. He was a bigger nutter than I had previously assumed. “I did not say whether I would be the umpire to your competition, nor did you ask for my input,” I clarified. “You assumed that everyone would jump onto the bandwagon you foolishly started. Despite your idiocy, everyone follows your lead. One day, you are going to get your comrades killed, and there will be no one to save you. No one will hear your screams for mercy.”

“And I thought I was the cynical one,” Sebastian commented. “Come on, Doctor. It’ll be less than an hour. I’ll make sure it’s over quickly.” That was the only sign of cockiness I had detected from the sniper. I mentally decided that I would accept the position as umpire because I would have to analyze Sebastian more closely. He was similar to someone I had known when I was in secondary.

I scowled. Sebastian raised an eyebrow. I acquiesced, “I will be the umpire for your little feud on one condition.” Without waiting for a response, I continued. “I will not be involved with any further petty confrontations that are ongoing or are a result of this competition between you. Am I understood?”

Sebastian nodded while Ulyseus shrugged noncommittally. “Let’s just get going!” Ulyseus said impatiently.

“Are you still keeping up that bullshite of being summoned by our commanding officer?” asked Moran.

“I am not keeping up the bullshite! I am really being summoned by the big man!”

“Sure,” snarled Sebastian. He sounded unconvinced and dubious.

“Let us get going,” I called. “Let’s get this over with.”

We went by the barracks, and Sebastian and Ulyseus grabbed their sniper rifles, other necessary gear, and two targets. Ulyseus gathered a couple of his buddies. Together, our little posse trekked several couple kilometers from the base.

Once we reached a spot several kilometers from the base, we stopped. From the point where Sebastian and Ulyseus began unpacking their supplies, I counted two hundred steps. As I plodded through sand, I thought about their competition. They had ten shots each, at their own pace, and whoever shot the bullseye the most times in those ten shots won their petty pissing contest. Once I reached two hundred paces from the others, I set up the paper targets on portable tripods. Once finished, I began the walk back to where the snipers were set up. Sebastian unfolded a tripod from his gear. He had finished setting up station, and he was had started assembling his rifle. Ulyseus was in the middle of assembling his rifle, but he didn’t set up a tripod or any sort of surface to set his rifle on.

I watched as Sebastian assembled his rifle. It was very controlled, his movements fluid and fast. A shot rang out, and I looked over towards Ulyseus’ target. I didn’t see a hole in the target, but I did see the bullet rip through the side of the paper. I looked over to Ulyseus, and I saw him standing up. I watched dumbstruck as he fired again, almost being blown back by the force of the gun he wielded. I heard Sebastian scoff, and I looked down. He looked up and shook his head. “Bloody idiot,” he muttered, and I couldn’t help but nod. I walked closer to the midpoint of the two snipers.

I watched as Ulyseus steadily shot at the target. His shots missed the target each time, as holes were ripped in the white paper around the rings.

Sebastian had begun to get settled, laying his rifle on the tripod and adjusting the sights. I saw some of Ulyseus’ friends begin to sneak up behind Sebastian. I snapped, “Step away from Sebastian,” just as he fired. However, that was enough time for Ulyseus’ cronies to yell and cause a ruckus, which caused Sebastian to hit the circle just outside the bullseye. He cursed and turned towards the idiots who caused him to miss. “Stop being sore losers, and go stand over by Ulyseus!”

I nodded. “As the umpire of this match, I could have it be Sebastian’s automatic win as a result of interference by the opposing side. However, Sebastian does not need such a handicap, so if you are over by Sebastian again, you will standing in front of the targets instead.” Sebastian nodded to me before refocusing on his target.

Looking over at Ulyseus, I noticed that he had shot eight times, but none of the shots hit the target. I could see a rugged circle in the sand around the target where he had missed, and the bullets embedded themselves into the earth behind the target. I walked over to him just as he shot the ninth bullet. “Ulyseus!” I called. “Sebastian has seven bullseyes. Theoretically and realistically, he has secured the victory.”

“What do you expect me to do, Doc?” Ulyseus snarled. “It’s a matter of sniper’s pride. You wouldn’t understand.”

“I understand that your unfathomable stupidity will cause you to make a blunder so great that seppuku, self-imposed isolation and fifty-thousand volts straight to the nipples will not cure. I do not understand how you are still living, as natural selection should have eliminated your superiority complex that has been festering for the past two decades,” I deadpanned. I was not going to show him respect when he so blatantly disrespected me. Respect is earned, not freely given.

He turned to me, red faced. “If you think you’re so hot, then why don’t you try?” he snarled.

I nodded, “Then let’s come to an understanding.”

“What?” Ulyseus snapped.

“When I shoot, I am neither endorsing you or your ideals, nor am I assisting in your feeble attempt to retain what little pride you have left. Despite me using your last bullet, my shot will not affect your score. On these conditions, do you allow me to use your rifle?” I asked.

“Fine,” he snapped. “I agree to these terms.” He slammed his rifle into my waiting hands, and I turned to Sebastian. I heard Ulyseus whisper something after I turned my back, but I disregarded his enraged mutterings.

“Sebastian!” I called when he had finished firing his ninth bullet. “I’ll be shooting Ulyseus’ tenth bullet, but it will not affect his score, understood?”

Sebastian nodded and replied, “I don’t mind, Lieutenant. It’s not like it will affect me either way. Does he understand this?”

Ulyseus snarled, “Yes, I do. Now let’s finish this bullshite!”

I went over to Sebastian and asked, “May I borrow your pack to rest the rifle on?”

He raised an eyebrow in question, but nodded. “Sure,” he replied. I nodded in thanks, and walked back towards Ulyseus and his cronies to begin setting up my station. “Tell me when you’re done,” Sebastian shouted at me. “Let’s shot the last shot together.” I sent him a thumbs up.

“Ready!” I shouted, when I was finished setting up my station, Ulyseus’ rifle settled on Sebastian’s pack. I adjusted the sights, taking into account the wind and glare of the sun. I slowed my breathing, slowly exhaling, watching how my movements affected the position of the gun. I focused on the red dot in the center of the target as I heard Sebastian’s voice.

“Shoot when you’re ready!” Sebastian shouted. Twin shots rang out, and I heard a gasp behind me. I looked through the scope, and I noticed a bullet hole in the center of the red dot on my target. I looked over to Sebastian’s target, and I saw another bullet hole in the bullseye.

I stood up, handed a gobsmacked Ulyseus his gun and turned my heel. I dusted off my pants as I walked towards the space in between Ulyseus and Sebastian’s stations. “Sebastian wins, 9-0!” I shouted. “As per the agreement, he gets bragging rights. Ulyseus, that means that you cannot claim that you are a better sniper than he is.” I looked over at him, and he stared at me, eyes hard. “Good shooting, gentlemen. Let’s get back to the base.” I finished, turned, and started walking back the way we came. I left the snipers to pack up the shite they set up.

Sebastian jogged over to me and laughed. He slapped me on the back as he commented, “Nice shooting Doc. You shot the bullseye when that dumbarse couldn’t even hit the target! I guess I’ll have to watch out for you now, Doctor Death!”

I sighed. “Nothing of the sort, Sebastian. I’ll stick to being a doctor and helping patients, not hunting down people through a scope.”

He hummed, but said, “You should try your talent in a shooting range, Doctor Death.”

“You should not call me that,” I replied. “Our regiment is going to wonder how I got that name, and we won’t be able to tell them that we went off base and fired guns. Especially when we were only doing it for a petty competition.”

“It was anything but petty,” Sebastian remarked, eyes hard. I hummed, but I said nothing further on the subject.


End file.
